The Gentleman Wolf
by Eilean Donan
Summary: A new lord comes to live in Cragstone Hall, and with him dark secrets and a violent past. And all alone, at each full moon, a young woman makes a ritual trip to the forest.....
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** **"Rydd" is the Cornish word for "red", and "Treweke" is pronounced as "troo-week" – also a Cornish name.**

**Prologue:**

_The Hall's gates loomed before me as I dismounted, all ancient half-rusted iron and tangled with creepers and ivy. No-one had lived in the Hall for fifty years, though it had stood for four hundred; a mish-mash of additions and extensions in different styles but of the same grim, grey stone, all built around the original stone keep which was squat and square, sitting in a tangle of weeds like an oversized toad._

_Its grimness and solitude suited me perfectly._

_Twining my reins in my hand, I pushed open the gates, bracing my shoulder against them and shoving hard, and stepped through into my domain. Gravel crunched under my boots as I made my way to the stables to leave my horse there, though my household servants were still a few miles behind me since I'd ridden on without them in my eagerness to arrive at this ramshackle heap of rock that was Cragstone Hall._

_A small white flower caught my eye, pure and virginal and in mortal danger of being crushed by my riding boot, and I bent to rescue it from its fate. I breathed its scent, and smiled, my gaze already blurring on the distant hills._

_Tonight was the full moon, and I had a thousand miles of sky to hunt under._

_********************************************************************************************************************_

**Chapter 1:**

Scarlett threw on her ragged old cloak of brown wool and stepped out of her cottage, wrapping the cloak around her against the night. There was still a winter's chill in the spring night and a late frost cracked under her sturdy boots as she ascended the road out of the village and up the hill towards Carn Gwen, an ancient barrow ringed in white stone that marked the entrance to Cannard's Wood. A little to the east of the barrow stood Cragstone Hall, and Scarlett paused to rest on the Carn, gazing over to the Hall and wondering at the lights in the windows. She'd heard that a new lord had come to reclaim it from the weeds and briars that threatened to choke it, but she hadn't thought that anyone other than the workmen would be here yet. There was a fine black coach by the doors, proof that more than just servants were there now. Whoever he was, Lord Treweke was evidently not the usual sort of gentleman.

She dropped down from her perch on the Carn and entered the wood, carrying no lantern for the way was so familiar to her that she needed none. Instead, she carried a small basket of flowers, a tinder-box, and a stub of candle, with two small gingerbread-men nestled carefully in a muslin cloth. The only light she needed was provided, as always, by the full moon, for it was a fine clear night.

A little way in, she began to be very, very aware of the rustling in the undergrowth, and of soft footfalls running parallel to her path. She stopped, and listened.

Nothing.

Telling herself not to be a fool, that there was nothing in these woods to harm her, she continued. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest.

The footfalls resumed, and were this time accompanied by a faint panting, as if of some large dog. She tried desperately to think of anyone who might own a dog and let it run out in the wood at night, and failed.

She ran.

The night followed her, and the moon dipped behind a cloud, and the panting ceased, but the footfalls were heavier now, and more even – long strides that quickly overtook her own.

He stepped in front of her just as she broke cover and entered the clearing.

She nearly fainted from fright. A tall man, broad about the shoulders with glittering black eyes and dark hair to his shoulders stood there, an expression of curiosity on his face. Had he been clothed, she might have reacted differently, but he was not. He stood naked in the path before her, his chin shadowed with stubble and his sculpted chest dark with hair, and raised an eyebrow at her.

He was also very erect.

She cracked.

Pulling back a branch with her free hand, she let it fly in his face, and nearly screamed when he ducked, faster than lightning, and grabbed her round the waist. He flung her to the forest floor underneath him, with a hand clamped over her mouth.

"There are worse things than me in this wood," he hissed in her ear, though the hard length pressing into her thigh belied his words. Her instinct to survive and get away from him kicked in and she went limp beneath him, intending to make a break for freedom as soon as he relaxed his grip. He didn't.

"Listen," he whispered in her ear, and she dutifully listened, her breath misting his hand and her heart sounding too loud in her ears. A man came into view in the clearing, a large axe slung over his shoulder. He looked round him, searching the shadows, but he saw nothing, and sat down upon a boulder. He began to whistle, his arms resting on the butt of his axe, his eyes still searching the surrounding woods. He looked filthy and unkempt. _A gypsy ?_ she wondered. _Or a poacher ?_ There was no woodsman here - this was wildwood.

Scarlett felt hot breath on her ear as the man above her lowered his head again to speak.

"I'm going to get up," he whispered, "and you are not going to scream, or make any noise at all, and you will get up also, and follow me. The second you disobey, you are dead. Understand ?"

She nodded, frightened, not knowing which man was the one she should fear. He eased himself off her and rose silently to his feet, lifting her with him in arms that looked strong enough to snap her spine in one movement if he so chose, and drew her away further into the wood's blackness, careful not to make a sound. Behind them, the whistling grew faint and erratic, then stopped altogether as the axe-man grew bored with waiting and set out into the woods in search of his quarry. Scarlett felt a large hand on her back as her naked guide urged her on faster, and she hurried, fear gripping at her insides and making her want to fling all caution and silence to the wind and just _run_.

They reached the entrance to the wood, and the man casually walked over to a small pile of cloth by the Carn, and began to dress. She noticed he was no longer erect, though his confident stance proclaimed him to be proud of the way he looked, all rangy muscle and dark hair, and that hard glitter of curiosity in his eyes.

_Like a wolf_, she thought, and remembered the snuffling and panting in the wood.

He pulled a loose linen shirt over his head and tied the neck-cords, the whiteness of the fabric gleaming in the moonlight and contrasting oddly with his dark visage, and then yanked on his boots and tied his hair back at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. He held out his hand to her.

"I'll escort you back to the village," he said, "I suggest you make no more wanderings in the woods at night, alone."

It was then that she realised she did not have her basket. He shook his head.

"Where were you going ?"

"I...uh…"she didn't feel like telling him the story. It was too personal, too private, and she hadn't a clue who he was.

He took her hand with a shrug, and led her down the road to the village.

"If I can ever be of service to you, come to the Hall and ask for Alasdair Treweke," he said, and left her with a bow.


	2. Chapter 2

Attendance at church on Sunday was painful, as always, with her thoughts on her child buried in unhallowed ground rather than the sermon which always seemed so full of hope and yet none of that hope was ever honoured by the people around her. If they knew that she went to the woods, and why, they'd…..

……she remembered the axe-man. Not someone she recognised, but a man from the next village perhaps ? Fear ran cold along her spine, and she wondered if he would look for her again at the full moon. Images clouded her mind, of a naked dark-eyed man in the shadows, his erection straining for her as he pressed her down in the leaf mould and old grass; a ragged man with a blade made for murder, and the hot breath of a man determined to have what he thought she owed him and made her pay in flesh and blood and spirit, time and again, over and over. Sweat beaded her brow and upper lip, and the images intensified, this time of a pounding of flesh against flesh and the low moans of a man in ecstasy as he stained her thighs with blood and bruises, like red roses and blue violets, a bouquet of suffering and slavery.

He'd given her a copper afterwards, flinging it on her belly with a sneer.

"Change," he'd said, before lacing his breeches and sauntering off, leaving her to pick up her broken body and her broken dreams by herself.

"Are you unwell, Miss…… ?" a gentle, deep voice sounded in her ear, a whisper she recognised at once. She turned her head and looked into the eyes of Alasdair Treweke, no longer a glittering black in the moonlight but a pale, silvery blue. He proffered a small silver box of snuff, and she gratefully took a pinch to steady her nerves.

"Rydd," she whispered back, "Miss Rydd."

He smiled, crinkling his blue eyes up at the corners and took his snuff back, depositing it in his coat breast.

After the sermon, she endeavoured to escape and make her way back home, hating the small-talk and the gossip of the village women and not wanting to find herself engaged by Alasdair Treweke, but he somehow appeared at her side and walked her home. His hair was a fine silvery brown in the early morning sun, and there was delicate white-work on the silk at his throat. She felt poor and dowdy next to him, in her good cloak of plain navy wool showing signs of wear at the hem, and her country brogues and plain bonnet. Feeling the need for more adornment, she reached out to pluck an early dog-rose from the hedge.

"There's a glade full of flowers in the woods west of the Carn," he said, watching her with amusement, "violets, primroses…"

"I do not care for them," she interrupted, then blushed as she realised her rudeness. He didn't seem bothered, and offered her his elbow again. She took it, silently, feeling a tremor of fear up her arm as she touched him.

_Dangerous_, screamed every nerve, but she couldn't shake him off.

She felt his muscles twitch under her free hand as she added it to the one already on his arm.

"A more exotic bloom for you, perhaps, Miss Rydd ?" he asked, "I have a hothouse in my gardens. Perhaps I could tempt you to a red rose ?"

They'd come to her garden gate, and she took her hands from his arm and curtseyed.

"Red is my favourite colour," she smiled, "I have my own roses, but alas, no hot house. I shall have to wait for the summer before I can enjoy them."

He bowed, understanding her completely, and left her then. He walked up the hill, and she wondered why he did not ride, like the other gentlemen. Even the pastor rode. She frowned, puzzled, and turned in doors, her fingers unclenching on her Bible.

She hadn't even realised she'd been holding to it so tight.

*******************************************************************************************************************

The wolf turned when he reached his gates, and looked down the hill to the village, then across to Carn Gwen. 

_There's magic here, old magic, in old places_, he thought, and crouched down in the weeds. He placed his palm flat on the ground, and smiled. Old earth energy pulsed through his wrist, stronger near the Carn than it was down in the village. The trip to church had cost him, but he had to go, or face the hostility and suspicions of the locals.

And what about Miss Rydd ? he wondered. Would she understand ? He'd sensed her lack of real faith; the scent of her, all doubts and impossible dreams, still lingered in his nostrils, and he was curious about her. And aroused. He breathed deep and savoured the thrill of it.

He turned into the Hall, calling for his servant man as he clattered up the stairs to his study. The man came hurrying after him, breathless and fat and grovelling, and he suppressed a growl. The man annoyed him, but he was painfully efficient at deflecting suspicions and questions about his lord. Stubbs was too valuable to let him go.

"Purchase 5 yards of good red worsted," he said, "and have it made up into a cloak and hood by the week's end."

Stubbs bowed, and hurried off. _No questions, as always,_ thought Alasdair. He got up, poured himself wine, and crossed to the window. It overlooked the courtyard, and he could see Stubbs issuing his orders for his brown nag, then mount up and bounce awkwardly out of the gates. He glanced up the sky, suddenly grown black, and smirked.

_Time for a walk in the woods,_ he thought, and rang the bell. His housekeeper entered, irritated with him for interrupting her work.

"Yes ?"

"I'm going out," he said, ignoring her attitude as he had for fifteen years, "I'll be a while, likely. But I will want my fire stoked and my supper ready when I do get back – and I want to know, when Stubbs comes in, how much he spent on my cloth. And if anyone ever comes calling, if it is not a woman, lock the door against them, will you ? You neglected to tell me about the visitor the other night."

"You seem to know anyway, Lord Treweke," she sniffed, "like you always do. Why should I waste my breath, young man ?"

"Because it is a mark of your loyalty, and my trust in you must be repaid; and because, if you do not obey my orders, I will see you _dead_."

He dismissed her with a jerk of his chin, and she stalked out, used to his threats. He fetched his own coat, and took to the path alongside the Carn, then into the woods. The gloom of the day had turned the ancient oak wood to an oppressive, sinister place, but Alasdair hardly noticed the atmosphere. He picked up her scent easily enough, and followed it until he came to the place he'd first encountered her. He stepped into the clearing, and shucked off his coat, flinging the heavy, ankle-length garment out of his way.

"I'm here, if you have the courage to face me," he said. He turned round and round, slowly, his arms wide to show he had no weapon.

_I don't need one_, he smiled to himself, _but you do_. _You need all the help you can get._

"You're a fool, Treweke," said a deep male voice from the shadows. The axe man stepped out, keeping his distance from Alasdair. "The girl's mine. You keep your paws off her."

"Not a chance. I have a mind to take her, and I doubt me very much you'll want my cast-offs."

"And do you want mine ? I've had her, I tell you – what a peach I plucked there ! You should have heard her…." he broke off as Alasdair's fist connected with his jaw, and he staggered back from the force of the blow, dropping his axe. He spat blood at Alasdair, and sneered.

"You have not had her," said Alasdair, "I would have smelled you on her, you baseborn liar !"

"If that were true, then you could smell the other man on her as well – the one who took her virginity and gave her a child !"

Alasdair nodded. "I have," he said, "and whoever that man is, he will die for it. What do _you_ want with her ?"

"Vengeance. It was my brother who raped her, and he died shortly after, saving you the trouble. She cursed him. She is a witch – you'd best be staying away from her !"

"She's not for you."

"Nor you, Treweke. Find some other slut to break."

Alasdair shook his head with a rueful smile. "Mayhap I don't intend to break this one," he said, "I think she has what it takes to run with the wolves." He drew a long knife from his boot, and advanced. "I know that _you_ don't."

The man backed up, retrieving his axe from where it had fallen. He held in front of him to ward the wolf off. He knew he was no match for Alasdair Treweke if he really wanted to kill him, but the axe was his talisman. Silver etchings glinted along the blade. Alasdair laughed.

"I'll give you a head start, hunter – fifteen minutes. Go on – start running !" He reached for the buttons on his breeches, kicking his boots off as he did so. He pulled his shirt over his head and bunched his muscles, crouching low in the grass of the clearing.

The axe man took off, a yelp of fear in his throat.

Alasdair re-dressed, thankful of the superstitions of the local people. For all who knew what he was, he had made damned sure that they believed he could shift any time he wished; they had no idea of the truth. Only a full moon enabled him to make the change.

But a wolfish hunger still coursed through his veins, a primal itch he needed to scratch, and he hurried back to the Hall.


	3. Chapter 3

Alasdair took the ledger down from the shelf, and blew hard on it. A cloud of dust nearly choked him, but he shook his head vigorously to dislodge the dust and set the book down on the desk and opened it. It was a valuable and unexpected find: the records of the Hall, from the years that mattered to him. He checked down the list of names of the people who had added to it over the years; a Delacroix family history.

_Edward de la Croix, Charles de la Croix, Henry De'lacroix, Edmund Delacroix……Thomas Delacroix. No mention of his other son, then. Why abandon the Hall ?_

Frowning, he eagerly flicked through the pages, yellowed already with the damp, looking for……_I don't know what I'm looking for. A clue to my heritage ? Something that justifies my existence ? But perhaps there's nothing that can do that….._

He slammed the book shut, and raked his hands through his hair, pulling it loose from its grey silk ribbon. The soft strands caressed the hard lines of his jaw, clean-shaven and pale. Frustration showed in his pale eyes. Several generations of Delacroix lords had kept their secret well. Too well. His mother could have told him, perhaps - but she was long dead, killed by the man who….

_Why did he kill her ?_

He rang the bell.

"Have you been into the village ?" he asked his housekeeper when she came in. She nodded.

"I went to the baker's, and I went to the farm for the chickens that were in the stables, before you ate them."

"I thought that was why you bought them ? I am sorry about the chickens; I will pay for more. But that's not important – how often do you go ?"

She looked surprised. "About three times a week; why ?"

"I want you to gossip with the goodwives, find out what you can about Thomas Delacroix. Or the Hall itself. It may be that some in the village still remember what happened with my mother. There is, of course, no need to gossip about me, or Scarlett."

"Scarlett ?"

"Miss Rydd. Don't put her in any danger."

The housekeeper frowned. "As you say, my Lord; I will not mention her. But if her name comes up ?"

"Do you think it might ?" he glared at her through the silvery strands of his hair; she baulked.

"I…..know she's involved with you. What if she was involved somehow with Janey Treweke ?"

"Voice that suspicion and I will tear your throat out," he snarled, "and this time I mean it. Get out."

*****************************************************************************************************************

Scarlett gazed in admiration at the beautiful garment in her hands. It had been delivered sometime between sunset and sunrise, and although there was no note, she knew who had sent it. There was only one man she knew who could afford cloth like that, and only one man who would send her a cloak made from it. Fine-woven brushed wool, dyed a deep blood crimson. The hood was lined in satin, and the clasp was a beautiful red-and-gold cloisonné rose.

She swallowed hard, unsure of why he'd sent her this, and how she should receive it. He had made no indication to her of courting her; her instincts told her that his plan was seduction, nothing more, but still…..she folded the cloak and re-wrapped it.

_I can't accept this of him._

But three weeks later she wore it, when she went to the wood. Alasdair Treweke had not been seen for three weeks, and the word was he'd been called away to London on business, yet there he was, sitting on Carn Gwen as if he'd been there the whole time. As if he were waiting for her.

"The colour suits you," he smiled, gazing appreciatively at her dark hair and pale skin against the crimson cloth. Her cheeks reddened, two drops of blood in cream.

"I must thank you for your gift, sir," she said with a little curtsey, "I came to the Hall but they said you were not at home."

"I am rarely at home to visitors," he said, scowling inwardly. His instructions to his household had been plain enough, he thought – don't let anyone in unless they are female. Miss Rydd was clearly female; he should have seen her. He resolved to eat Stubbs later, when he got in. He was sick of the man and his deceptions.

He dropped down from the Carn, and looked up at the sky.

"You're a night early."

"Yes." She looked him straight in the eye. He smiled, and held out his hand.

"Well in that case, Miss Rydd, you will allow me to escort you through the forest."

She didn't take his hand, keeping both of hers firmly behind her back out of reach and temptation. His frock coat was deep blue velvet; his cravat of pale lavender silk. There was a scent to him that she had once wished to know, before another man's odour had come to haunt her. He dropped his hand back to his side, his eyes dark.

"Give me your hand !" He growled, and started towards her. She took a step back, ready to run even though she knew it would do her no good.

"I mean you no harm !" he insisted, "come, come with me. Please." And he was around the back of her, too fast for her to escape, and had her hand in his. "The forest," he said, "you know about. Me, you know about. Now, time to learn about yourself. Come with me !"

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Casey Gunn sluiced his face clean with water from the spring and scrambled back up the steep bank to his cottage door. The hovel was so far into the forest, and so covered in vines and creepers that anyone not looking for it would never have found it. No-one came this far into the forest anyway; the local legend of an old witch, drowned in the spring during the winter of 1741 by the King's witchfinders put them off. According to the legend, the place was cursed, but Casey had not suffered the effects of any such curse and did not believe in it, since he knew the truth. He saw the place as his sanctuary – his home.

_At least no-one has found me so far,_ he thought, stirring the small iron pot of rabbit stew and taking a sip of bitter ale from the jug that sat on the table. _Apart from that bastard Treweke, and he isn't likely to betray me._ A lock of wavy black hair fell in his eyes and he brushed it away impatiently.

_Full moon tonight_, he thought, and reached under the table for the pair of flintlocks he kept there. Lord Treweke would not expect him to have them, he would expect the axe. Casey set the pistols on the table and checked them over, running his fingers lovingly over the dark wood and mother-of-pearl decoration. They were all he had left from his former fortune. He looked down at himself, and saw a ragged wraith of a man: ragged hair and ragged, stained clothes, his face marred by a long knife scar from his brow to his jaw. His lips twisted at the bitter memory of that day, the day he'd lost everything.

_I will make them all pay for it,_ he vowed, and buckled on the pistols. They were the only real thing in his world – that and the axe. His fingers traced the witch-runes on it almost absently; it had been created for one thing and one thing only.

Vengeance.

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The man Stubbs sweated and trembled, his eyes squeezed shut as his master shifted in front of him and became the hated, feared wolf. His ears rang with his master's last words: _you false, lying, rebel scum ! For this, you die – as I promised you ! You thought to deceive me ? You thought to outwit me ? You inbred fool !_

The wolf circled.

"My Lord, no, no, there is something you should know, please……" his words died in a gurgle as the wolf tore his throat from him.

Stubbs crumpled to the ground, dead before he hit it, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.

Alasdair kicked the corpse viciously.

"Lying filth." He muttered, and whirled on his groom. "Fetch me faggots and a torch – I'll burn this damned whore-spawn liar !" He unfolded the letter again, that he had crumpled in one large fist in his anger, and read it aloud to his people, each word spat from his lips like the deadliest poison.

"_To my friend and comrade Casey Gunn_," he snarled, "_from Viscount Delacroix, I give you greeting. I have looked into the matter you referred to me and have thus far managed only to confirm your suspicions – namely, that the man who has taken for his place of residence Cragstone Hall has indeed as you suspect no right to do so; yet I fear that proving this will be rather more than you nor I can handle and I do not recommend you employ a lawyer. I will continue in my search for something which may damn him, and I pray that God will keep you from his evil. I await your response at Bath on this day the twenty-fifth of May, 1770. Yours, Edward Delacroix_"

Alasdair crumpled the letter back into his pocket with an oath. "Why would this filth keep that letter from _me _?" he asked the air. He didn't expect an answer from his servants. Blood, acrid smoke and burning flesh filled his nostrils, along with the scent of fear emanating from his people – he dared not look at them for to see the fear in their eyes would break him and he would give in to what he was and kill them too. None would ever be missed, but a Lord without servants led a life of inconvenience.

He called for his horse.

"I'm going into the village," he said, "bar the doors – no-one is to enter whilst I am gone." He swung up into the saddle, pulling his coat-skirts free to hang over his thighs. A gust of wind took the loose tendrils of his hair and whipped them into his eyes. His mood lifted; the ride to the village would be all too short.

He took the road by the Carn, then cut across the fields to access the village from the other end, just so he could enjoy the feel of the wind on his face. His horse, bunching powerful muscles underneath him as they galloped across the fields seemed to appreciate the ride as much as he did, despite the lingering sense of fear and death. He had never been able to tame the horse enough to not fear him; right at that moment he did not care.

He dismounted outside Scarlett's gate and hitched his horse to the bars. Her door stood open and an enticing scent of baking drifted out to assail his nostrils with an aroma that went straight to his stomach.

He went in.

She was placing a heavy tray of bread on the table, giving him a fine view of her cleavage as she bent over the loaves. He didn't know what he wanted more – to eat the loaves, or her. And it wasn't the usual sort of hunger, either. His loins heated and stirred and he realised it had been several months since he'd enjoyed a woman.

She looked up as his shadow fell across the room, and he smiled at the effect he had on her. Her eyes widened and her cheeks reddened, and he could almost feel her heart thumping. He lounged against the door jamb and winked at her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Rydd," he said politely. She smiled and dropped him a demure curtsey, and offered him tea. To his delight she had baked more than bread, and produced a plum cake and a plate of delicate sugar-biscuits to go with the tea. He sat, his big frame almost dwarfing her table, and eyed the creamy skin of her throat.

He rose and shut the door.

"You lost a bet last night."

"I did, sir." She met his eyes fearlessly, and his heart surged, the way it had when she'd accepted his challenge – a race around Carn Gwen and down across the moor, around the ancient barrow there and back up to the Carn. Barefoot. She'd lost, but did it with such grace and a light in her eyes he wanted to see again and again. His heart had raced with more than the exercise.

She bit her lip, slowly, as she too remembered, drawing her teeth over the soft pinkness, and his loins followed his heart. His lips parted and his eyes darkened.

"Come here," he growled.

She settled into his lap, a little flustered, but by no means unwilling to be there. He took his first kiss from her gently, then a second, all the while trying to suppress the urge to throw her on the table and ruck her skirts up and shove himself into her.

_You're an animal, Treweke, an animal, an animal, an animal…………_

He broke their third kiss, and set her on her feet again.

"Enchanting," he said, his voice husky, "But I cannot pick all the flowers at once. My grandmother taught me that – leave some, to cast their seeds, that more may grow. Do you agree, Miss Rydd ?"

She blushed, and looked everywhere but him, her bosom rising and falling beneath her chemise. A strand of her hair came loose from her cap and tumbled around her shoulders, and he wound it around his fist, pulling her face up for another kiss.

"Well ? Did I leave enough for another time ?"

"Yes, my Lord," came the breathy reply. His breeches felt too tight, his coat too hot. He touched his finger to her lips.

"And how should I proceed then, Miss Rydd ? Do I have to wait 'til spring for the next flowering ?"

She glanced up at him, her eyes bright. Bold as brass, she planted a soft kiss on his lips, and his senses reeled.

_I had no idea……oooh……yes…….._

"Only until later my Lord," she said, stepping away from lightly, her fingers brushing his chest.

He unhitched his horse, and slapped its rump, and ran home on four feet. His blood sang.


	4. Chapter 4

Alasdair stood looking down at the sad little cairn nestled between two hazel trees. Scarlett knelt beside it, nervously weaving a garland of ferns and buttercups to place on the grave. A chill wind was rising on the moor; the branches above him were already swaying to and fro, the leaves whispering an ancient oak song. The wind carried the sharp salt tang of the sea, ten miles to the west, and the heather on the headland. He breathed deep, feeling the blood in his veins answer the song. He could feel the old magic again, and it thrilled him. He looked down at his companion, puzzled by her.

"Why here ?" he asked.

"Because here, no-one will find out," she told him.

"'Tis his shame, not yours." He dropped to his haunches beside her and touched her hand. She was cold, and he shrugged off his coat and draped it about her shoulders. She flickered a smile his way, a brief acknowledgement of his kindness, then returned to plaiting her wreath.

"He hanged for it," he said, "did you know that ?"

She spun round to look at him, her shock plain on her face. "How could you know that ?"

"I spoke to his brother, not two nights ago," he replied nonchalantly. 

She shook her head, bewildered. "What are you talking about, his brother ? How ? When ?"

"I am not privy to the full details. Suffice it to say, he is dead."

_And is what Gunn really wants vengeance ? Is he so wicked that he'd make a young woman pay for such a crime inflicted on her ? _There were too many tangled threads here in this place; he wanted to get her out of there, back to the Hall where he could think.

She placed the finished wreath on the cairn, and bent her head in silent prayer. He waited, patient and thoughtful. The scents of the forest assailed his nostrils; oak sap and moss, and dead leaves and the bark of trees stripped by deer. He could smell her blood, cold in her veins despite his great coat.

_I could warm you,_ he thought, his eyes on her bent head. The hood of her red cloak was thrown back and the moonlight glinted on her dark hair. _Hair like night, skin like cream, lips like red roses_….

His blood heated, a thrill of desire he had learned to relish.

"Scarlett," he said softly. She looked up, her prayer done. He didn't know what she prayed to; he only knew that it wasn't God. So much the better then; she'd come to him free of _that_ guilt.

"Get up," he ordered. She obeyed, her expression meek. He drew her close to him and parted the neck of her chemise. "No crucifix ?" Surprise coloured his tone; he hadn't thought her that removed from the good Christian she pretended to be.

She caught his hand, pushed it away from her throat.

"The silver would hurt you," she whispered. She whimpered as he ripped her bodice open and bared her breasts, pushing her gown down around her ankles and with it, the scarlet cloak. Her skin gleamed pale in the moonlight and her scent filled his nostrils, sending lust surging through his body. He shed his own clothes thoughtfully, and she watched and waited. Her heart hammered loudly but she stood her ground; she had felt his hands on her and enjoyed his kisses…….

…._he won't hurt me. He won't !_

He reached for her and drew her close to him, spreading his hands across her back and down over her buttocks, stroking softly. His lips found hers; a low moan escaped her and he crushed her against him, dragging her down to the forest floor with him, her red cloak a blanket for them both. He pushed her legs apart and joined his heat with hers, unable to hold back any longer. Scents assailed him, sensation took him and sent his spirit soaring….

_Sea and oak and moss and flesh and blood and….aah….this…._

The moonlight caressed his skin and he felt the wolf rise within him as he began to thrust.

*******************************************************************************************************************

Casey's flesh ran cold when he heard the scream echoing through the trees. A woman's scream, high-pitched and full of pain and fear.

"Damn him to hell !" he swore aloud, reaching for his guns. He slept clothed, always, partly for warmth and partly in case he needed to run.

He flung open the hovel door and listened; there were no more screams but a faint whimpering reached his ears, and then…...

…..a howl. Primal and full of hunger, it seared the night with fear, the ancient song of the predator.

_Not predator any more, but prey_, he thought grimly, and took off in the direction of the howl, his palms sweaty around the pistols.

He found them not far away, a large man where he had heard a wolf, and a woman. Her whimpers were not of pain or fear, but pleasure. The man lay between her legs, his thrusts drawing those sounds from her. Her legs curled around his thighs and her nails clawed red trails across his naked back.

Casey swore.

_No, that is not what I see ! _

He blinked, and the image was gone. He sat up, his head reeling. There was nothing but the shadows of the hovel, and the sound of the spring bubbling nearby. His mouth was dry, and his head hurt like Hell.

_Nothing here but ghosts_, he growled at himself. He rose, and padded over to the table. The jug of ale was all but empty, and he finished it in one gulp. It didn't help, and he fished around under the table for the bottle of old brandy he kept there.

_Don't lose your nerve, Gunn, keep your focus. Don't let the past creep up on you; don't let that bastard win !_

He pulled on his boots, slung his guns over his shoulder, and set out for the Carn. Dawn wasn't far off when he arrived; although the moon was still high, there was a thin streak of silver showing just above the distance hills.

He didn't move when he heard the soft tread of footsteps behind him, and the rhythmic panting of the wolf.

His finger tightened on the trigger, and he held his breath.

"Come on, you bastard," he growled when the panting continued, but the wolf didn't come into view, "_face_ me !"

But it was not the wolf he faced, but the man, sleek-limbed and naked in the grey light of dawn. He spread his arms wide.

"I'm unarmed," he said, "now is the time, if you want to kill me !" He smirked, as if he didn't really believe Casey to be capable of shooting a naked man in cold blood.

Casey sneered, and levelled the pistols at his enemy. Alasdair stepped closer, still smirking.

"Stay where you are !" snapped Casey. The pistols shook a little, but he stood his ground. Alasdair shrugged.

"Just making it easier for you," he said, "though I would be surprised if you could hit anything at all with those antiques !"

Casey swore, and flung the man's clothes at him. His attitude was beginning to unnerve him. _Wolf, damn you, become the bloody wolf ! I can shoot a wolf !_

"Get dressed," he snarled, flinging the pile of clothes at Alasdair, and Alasdair dressed once more. He caught the pistol that Casey threw at him.

"Twenty," he said curtly, and turned on his heel and paced the distance out. He turned, and began to shift his shape back into the wolf. Casey swore, levelled his barrel, and fired. The bullet hit the animal's leg as it ran, and Casey heard its yelp of pain as it disappeared behind the Carn and into the wood.

******************************************************************************************************************

Alasdair limped up the stairs of the Hall, naked and trailing blood. His ruined clothes he had clawed back from the Carn once Casey had gone, but the bundle of rags did little to hide his state. His housekeeper came hurrying up, her wrinkled old face concerned for once, though he was snarling profanities that sparked disapproval in her eyes.

"I've been bloody shot; get me bandages and brandy !" he snapped, "and find me pen and paper ! I need to send a letter to London. Send for Powell; he should relish _this_ trip !"

He entered his suite of rooms and sank gratefully down on a sofa. His housekeeper entered with the things he'd demanded from her, and proceeded to bathe the wound in hot water and whisky. The brandy he slugged back as if it were mother's milk, though it burned his throat.

"'Tis naught more than a flesh wound," the old woman told him, "I don't know what you're making this fuss for. You've had worse."

"It doesn't matter if I get shot at from here to bloody India if the bullets are dull lead, you stupid hag !" he yelled, the brandy firing red behind his eyes. He dashed the glass against the wall. "But if it's silver……"

"He used _silver _?" She stopped her ministrations to stare at him. He stared back.

"He knows, yes," he said, feeling a little calmer, though hysteria still lurked in the depths of his chest, "Casey Gunn does know what I am. Now, how long have _you_ known ?" His fingers curled in a threat, halfway to a fist. She shook her head.

"I didn't get to be seventy-five by keeping my eyes closed, young man," she said sternly, "I know a lot more than you think I do. Now, keep still !"

"Leave off," he growled, pushing her aside, "I'll finish this myself. Who else here knows ?"

"As far as I know ? None of them. I have not said a word. I know how to be discreet - and that is more than anyone can say of you. That chit of a girl….."

"Is my _lover_," he said, a note of warning in his voice. "She is innocent; but Casey Gunn thinks she is a card he can play to force my hand."

"And you have other ideas ?"

"Yes." He took up the pen and paper, and glared at her. "Out," he said, and she rose, her stiff old knees cracking with the effort, and stalked out.

_They all have to go, all of them !_ He tried to crush the rising panic, and failed, and he reached blindly for the writing materials.


	5. Chapter 5

_My dear Edward, I have news for you; your half-brother Alasdair Treweke lies on his death-bed. The cause ? My own bullet – and I swear to you as God is my witness that it was he who challenged me, and lost. Cragstone Hall will be yours in days, I'll wager. A word of warning; there ……._

"Where's the rest ?" Edward demanded. The rider shrugged.

"That's all there was; if you were expecting more, then take it up with my Lord," he said. He slouched in the saddle, the rain dripping off the brim of his hat and running in rivulets down the heavy oilskin he wore. Mud tarnished the good leather of his boots, and his fine gold hair hung ragged down his back, a tangle of rain-soaked silk. He looked thoroughly miserable, and his dappled grey mare appeared to be of the same opinion regarding the weather. She shifted yet again, favouring her right haunch, and he sighed.

"As soon as I have more than a copper to my name, it's new shoes for you, old lady !" he said softly. She whickered at him; whether in anticipation or derision, he didn't know. Edward Delacroix looked him over suspiciously.

"You're not the usual express rider," he noted.

"No," the man's boot came up and connected with the Viscount's jaw; he staggered back and slipped in the mud, falling flat on his arse. The rider chuckled, and leapt down from his saddle.

"Hard lot, the Cornish," he grinned, as he rooted through Edward's pockets, "I never did earn much robbing them; but _you_…now, what's this ?" he took a locket from Edward's neck; the chain snapped easily when he yanked on it. He flipped it open. Two faces stared back at him; one he recognised, that of a man with silver-brown hair and blue eyes. _Delacroix ?_ He frowned. This man's mouth was a hard thin line, where the one he knew was sensual and firm, and these eyes held more violence in them than he'd ever seen in the man at the Hall, but the resemblance was startling……_and how much would he pay me for this ?_ he wondered.

"Hmmm. A cheap trinket, but I'll keep it to remind me of the lucrative job I took today." He remounted, whistling a Jacobean air that would have got him hanged had he been heard by anyone in a position to hang him, and cantered off. His horse's hooves kicked up the mud as they went, splattering the disgusted and shocked Viscount where he still sat. He scrambled to his feet and hurried into the inn, calling for his servant.

"Get my carriage !" he snapped, when the man arrived, fresh from a bout of whoring from the looks of him, "we leave immediately !"

"Where for ?"

"Cornwall ! _Move_ !"

***********************************************************************************

Alasdair sweated into his sheets, his dreams dark and frightening and filled with blood. Once, he dreamed that he slammed into the woman underneath him, lost in pleasure though her neck was bruised and bloodied from the hanging cord and her eyes were sightless. His claws tore into her flesh as he came, and he flung her bloodied carcass onto the other in the hut, howling his anger and jealousy into the night even as he fired the hovel….

_Not me, not me, not me !_

He woke, screaming, and in mortal fear for his soul.

The wound festered, and he wondered if he really were dying, as his letter had said. He wondered where Delacroix was, and where Powell was.

_Curse him ! Curse them both !_

He sent for Scarlett.

She arrived a little while later, worried and soaked to the bone. She had been shown to his room still in her cloak, dripping water onto the carpet and looking bedraggled and miserable. The housekeeper stamped out, slamming the door behind her. Alasdair rang the bell again.

"Get dry clothes, and tea, will you ?" he snapped when she came back in, "and how dare you treat a visitor to my home this way !" He dragged himself up on his pillows, and beckoned Scarlett to him. She knelt by his bed, her fingers gently stroking his hair. He pulled her onto him and settled her in his arms.

"What ails you ?" she asked softly. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the mossy, rainy scent of her.

"Gun wound," he said, "our friend the axe man; it appears it's me he's after, not you. Be still; I will deal with him."

She nestled against him; he felt weak, unable to hold her. Pain lanced his leg as her weight fell against it and he hissed through his teeth.

"Silver ?" she asked, and he nodded. "How does he know ?"

"I don't know. But I believe it may have something to do with my mother." He glanced up as the housekeeper brought the tea; her expression was like ice.

"There are no clothes here but mine suitable for a woman," she sniffed, "I suggest you get yourself away home and dry as soon as possible, _Miss_ Rydd." She stamped out again, muttering.

Scarlett coloured. Alasdair gave her a squeeze.

"Pay her no heed; she disapproves of everybody and that includes me," he smiled, and snatched a kiss from her before she could protest. Her body heated, and she wriggled against him. He took another kiss, relishing the taste of her, and tightened his arms. She pulled away and slid off the bed.

"What's the matter ?" he demanded, "if you really think I have the strength to do what I did three nights ago….."

"No," she giggled, "I just thought I'd get out of my wet clothes." She took hold of her bodice lacings and pulled them free; her dress slid off her with a wet thud and she clambered back into his arms clad only in her chemise.

"This is damp also; take it off," he grinned, nuzzling her neck with his lips. Her nipples rubbed hard against his bare chest through the soft linen and he groaned. "Now," he said urgently, pulling up the hem with one hand while he stroked the back of her neck with the other. She complied, giggling, and he pushed down the sheets and pulled her on top of him. Her skin was cold, and he rubbed vigorously at her until she warmed, though she sighed that his kisses were doing that.

He guided himself into her with a soft sigh of need.

"Ah, my Red," he gasped as she sank onto his hard length, "you have no idea........"

*******************************************************************************************************************

Powell sat his mare atop the Tór and glared over the moor at the Hall, misty-grey in the rain. He checked his watch; only four-o'clock. It might as well have been the depth of winter; certainly he could not remember ever being so cold and wet as he was now.

_July be damned !_ he swore, and dug in his heels. The mare began a slow descent, the silver storm-light shining wetly on her new shoes. He could see, once again, no sight of either Gunn or Treweke; he considered calling it a day and heading back to his hideaway. He was about to turn when he caught a glimpse of scarlet moving through the mist near the Hall.

He grinned.

"Gotcha !" he chuckled, and spurred towards it.


	6. Chapter 6

Scarlett took the path past the Carn and entered the wood. Her clothes were still damp, and her skirts clung wetly to her ankles, but she paid that no heed; Alasdair's life was more important to her than being warm and dry. Besides, she _was_ warm; his love-making had seen to that. Her heart gave a little leap as she remembered the feel of his body against hers, his large warm hands sliding over her naked, silken limbs, his breath hot on her skin and ragged with passion. She wouldn't have left his side if he hadn't sent her on this mission, despite his housekeeper's unrestrained disapproval.

The gloom inside Cannard's Wood dampened her spirits a little, and she took a different path this time. This one was narrower; tangled and overgrown, an old, old trail that had not seen human foot since the witch had died thirty years ago. She had not been this way before, but she knew where the trail led and Alasdair had described the way clearly. She found the cottage almost buried by the forest, and smiled. Hopefully there would be enough of what she needed in there, as Alasdair had said; first, the water from the old fairy spring. She scrambled down the bank to the spring and filled the flask she had brought with her from Alasdair's kitchen; re-corking it, she clambered back up the bank to the cottage.

Her heart froze in her chest when she saw the man come out of the hovel, his axe over his shoulder. He stopped dead when he saw her, then grabbed her, pulling her back into the cottage with him and slamming the door.

"What the hell are you doing here ?" he demanded roughly. He shoved her into a chair and strapped her to it with his belt; she struggled but he was far, far stronger.

"Oh stop that," he sneered, "you're not going anywhere ! Now, what are you doing here ? You're Treweke's whore, aren't you - answer me !"

"I love him," she sobbed, trying to twist free of her bonds. They held fast. Casey took the flask from her and uncorked it.

"And does he love you, or is it just because he refuses to pay for a whore – what's this, water ?"

"Yes," she whispered miserably. She wondered if he was right, if Alasdair did indeed only want her for the pleasure she could give him. He had taken her only twice; but each time she'd felt a little of the old shame and fear drop away under his passionate and gentle touch. He gave back what he took, and a little more besides. But now, he wasn't here, and the old nightmares were scrabbling at her reason. She felt sick, terrified.

Casey swigged at the flask, then slammed it onto the table and grabbed his guns. He looked down at the girl bound fast to his chair.

"Still a-bed is he ? How's the wound I gave him ?"

She stared at him sadly. "He is….much improved," she lied. He chuckled darkly, and stroked her gently under the chin.

"I don't think he is," he smirked, "I think I'll find him weak, and dying. Does he know that you love him ? Shall I tell him that for you ? Or shall I tell him that you love _me_ instead, and that I've had you, and you're sleeping off your passion in my bed ?"

She shook her head, the tears already spilling down her cheeks. "No," she whispered, "Please, no…."

He made no reply but shrugged on his coat, crusted with mud, and crammed his hat on his head.

"I'll be sure to bring you his message – if he bothers to send one," he said nastily, "I won't be long; make yourself at home !" He slammed out of the hovel, whistling jauntily as he hurried on his mission.

Despair threatened to engulf her as she watched him leave, locking the door firmly behind him and leaving her in the gloom.

***************************************************************************************************************

Powell rode past the Carn for the third time, puzzled. He wasn't given to seeing ghosts and had no time for goblins, but unless she'd gone into the wood…..he didn't know many people who would willingly enter that cursed place. Nevertheless, she'd disappeared, and that was the only place she could have gone.

He crossed himself, an uncharacteristic gesture.

"Bloody fairies ! Bloody superstitious fool !" he grumbled to himself. He was about to give it up for a lost cause when several woodpigeons erupted from the trees, followed by Casey Gunn.

"Ho there !" he called, and Casey wheeled about, gun already in his hand.

"Daniel ? I thought you were gone to London !" he said, "do you have news for me ?"

"From Delacroix ? Not as such, he is thinking about how best to proceed," Powell lied glibly. "Where are _you_ going ?"

"To the Hall," Casey grinned, "No doubt you're aware of Treweke's indisposition ?"

"No." Powell looked interested.

"Ah, well," Casey paused for a chuckle, "he's been shot. A nasty wound – nearly took his leg off, so I hear." He shook his head with a chuckle as if lamenting Treweke's unfortunate situation.

"And you're off to finish it." Powell scowled. He had no love for Treweke, and even less for Gunn. However, both were sources, in their own way, of a lucrative income and he didn't fancy losing either. He pulled a pistol from inside his greatcoat. "Can't allow that, Gunn."

"Why not ? Come with me – there's a fortune in silver at the Hall, I'll wager, not to mention the gold in his purse. How much does he pay you ?" He allowed himself a smile of grim satisfaction at the shock on the highwayman's face. _Thieving liar !_ he thought.

Powell took his hat off and slapped it against his thigh, dislodging the droplets of water that had gathered near the crown. Rain rapidly misted his golden hair, and his habitual arrogance returned to replace the shock on his face. There was lace at his throat, Casey noted bitterly, all too aware of his own ragged garb.

"More than I make from you," said Powell, and fired his gun. Casey rolled, having expected the shot, and came up firing his own pistol. He missed, but Powell's horse shied and bucked, dumping her rider in the heather and bolting. Gunn was on him, his hands around his throat. He brought his knee up desperately, pulling at Casey's hair and clawing at his face in an attempt to throw him off.

"You whoreson !" he gasped when Gunn let go and he sprang free, red faced and gasping, "you bloody whoreson !"

Casey fumbled with his second pistol, but the highwayman's arm crashed into his and the gun flew through the air, landing in the heather a few feet away. Powell knocked Casey down, smashing his nose, and then crashed on top of him as he caught his foot on an errant stone from the Carn and tripped. The rolled, each cursing and each trying his best to murder the other. Powell yelled as Casey raked the sharp point of a short knife up his arm. He scrambled away, and glimpsed a flash of red through the mist down the hill.

He froze.

Casey saw it too, and started back into the woods.

"Redcoats !" he hissed, and Powell stumbled after him, swearing. "Get back out, you bastard !" He gave Powell a shove, and he staggered back into the shadows just as the first of the soldiers crested the hill by Carn Gwen, leading a dapple-grey mare by her reins.

Their captain chuckled.

"Daniel Powell," he greeted the highwayman. Powell found his arms firmly secured behind him, and he was forced to his knees. "Long time, no see. Still up to no good, are you ?"

"As ever," Powell said defiantly, spitting at the captain's feet. He was disarmed and hauled roughly up into his saddle. The captain pulled open his coat and drew forth a wad of crumpled letters, and Edward's locket.

"Plying a slightly different trade, I see, this time of deceit," he said thoughtfully, "I am sure that Thomas Delacroix will pay handsomely for these letters. Pity that you can't spend your gold in gaol, Daniel."

Powell glared. "Those letters will hang anyone who has possession of them, you idiot – I suggest you burn them !"

"And destroy the evidence I need to hang _you_ ? Not likely. I always wanted to hang you, Daniel, old friend."

Powell shrugged. "I always knew I'd end up on the gallows," he said, "so I have nothing to say to you. Except this: once you're done with me, hunt down Alasdair Treweke and his whore and hang them both, for unlawful possession of another man's estate, for lewd and carnal behaviour, and for _witchcraft_. That's if they're not both murdered by Casey Gunn."

The captain reached out and grabbed Powell's face in one hand, squeezing. "Those are serious charges, Daniel," he snarled, "you had better have evidence, and you had better present it yourself !" This earned muffled laughter from his men, and a sneer from Powell.

"Before or after you hang me ?" Powell quipped, and earned himself a back-handed blow from the captain. He spat blood, and chuckled.

"_After_," said the captain with a grin, "and the Devil can pay your bail !"


	7. Chapter 7

Alasdair twisted under his sheets, crumpling the sweat-soaked linen in his fists and muttering brokenly in the old language. His eyes were tight closed and his face grey, sheened with sweat.

_I am dying_, he thought, _ah, my love ! Where are you ? Come to me ! I need you……._

But there was no answer, and his dreams were feverish and dark. Fire burned his thigh, tendrils of flame licked at his loins and belly, pulling at the wolf inside him. His hackles rose, but he couldn't shift. He screamed. "Trapped ! He trapped me here ! I'll die here like this ! Scarlett, _ti di'nghariad i_ - where are you ?"

A cool hand stroked his forehead and he flung his arm up. "You're not her," he gasped, "get away from me !"

"Hush, hush," his housekeeper said soothingly, "it is a long walk; she'll be awhile yet, have patience."

"No no no, no ! She's lost, lost in the forest, please, you must…" The silver burned a hole in his thigh, hissing its way through muscle, tendon and bone, again and again. He whimpered.

"Water," he begged, "so thirsty…."

The cool, hard rim of a cup pressed against his lips; he gulped at the honeyed water greedily. There was a bitter aftertaste of herbs; he didn't care what they were. "More," he gasped. The wolf struggled to break free; he howled.

"How long is this going to_ take_ ?" he screamed. He wrestled with the sheets, scrabbling for freedom from the pain; then the cup was once more pressed to his lips, and he drank.

His descent into darkness and peace was painless and gentle. Somewhere within him, the wolf howled, and was silent.

***********************************************************************************

Thomas Delacroix leaned his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers under his chin. A pile of letters were spread out before him. He glared at the man who had brought them to him.

"Where is my son now ?" he asked. His voice was quiet and deep, but his blue eyes smouldered with barely concealed anger. The captain licked his lips nervously.

"I believe he is still in London," he said.

"Not him. The other one."

"Er…..other one, my Lord ?"

Thomas slapped his palm onto the table in exasperation. "Alasdair Treweke !" he bellowed, "where is Alasdair Treweke ?"

The captain's eyes widened. "At Cragstone Hall, or so I understand. Forgive me, my Lord, I had no idea…"

"Goddamn it, man - it's the worst kept secret in England," snapped Thomas, "or have you been living under a rock all these years ?"

"No, Sir," the captain said meekly. Thomas growled.

"What is Edward playing at ?" he murmured to himself. He picked up the letters and began to read them, flipping from one to the other and back again.

_My esteemed colleague assures me faithfully that certain charges can be brought against the man Treweke pertaining to his involvement with the East India Company……..and that certain of his acquaintances have been tried for murder and piracy which in his Majesty's eyes amounts to treasonous behaviour against the Crown…….I beg you do not engage him, I know his secret and it would go ill with you were you to try to bring him to his deserved fate…..and I wish this to be a fair trial and not murder for though I abhor him, my father does not………..but if it comes to that I can hang Delacroix along with the bastard Treweke……I know you would not, and I ask that you do not, as a friend, remember we have a common cause….._

Thomas crumpled the letters in his fist and flung them back on the desk.

"Have you read these, captain ?"

"No, sir."

"Good. My thanks for your services. That will be all – good day to you." He waited until he was certain the soldier had gone, then he rang for his man servant.

"Send for my son Edward," he ordered, "tell him that I require his presence at Cragstone Hall in two days and no more." The man bowed and left, and Thomas gathered up the letters and placed them in a leather file. He took a brace of pistols and a box of ammunition from the desk drawer, and a purse of twenty guineas. He scribbled a hasty note to his wife and left it on their pillow. She would not understand, and he had no time to wait while she had hysterics about it.

He rode out of the courtyard of their town house in Bath at a canter, which turned into a gallop as he hit the road running south to Cornwall.

He silently prayed that he wasn't too late.


	8. Chapter 8

Casey looked up at the iron gates of Cragstone Hall, chained fast against intruders. It was a simple thing to clamber up the ivy-clad walls and drop down the other side; he had feared to do so before but now, with Treweke dying, there was nothing here that could harm him. The place was silent; he wondered if all the servants had fled, or been murdered by their bastard lord. Neither would have surprised him, and he was grateful for their absence.

It took him no time at all to find where Alasdair lay; the stench of sickness and decay was all too clear.

_He's going fast_, he thought, _I can't believe he was fit enough to lie with that whore only a few hours ago_…….he shook his head clear of the lewd, arousing images that filled it, and pushed the door open.

Treweke lay in the bed, quite alone, and silent and still. His face was a deathly pallor and his limbs were so twisted that Casey feared himself too late. He crept closer, and placed his hand on Alasdair's chest.

_Still alive_…_barely,_ he thought, and shook him. _I will finish this – and he will look into the eyes of his killer !_

"Scarlett ?" Alasdair's voice was a mere croak. He struggled to open his eyes, forcing the lids up and trying to focus.

"No, the whore's captive in your mother's cottage," said Casey, "she came to me begging for a better screw than you gave her. Pretty little thing, isn't she ?" He grinned when he saw that his words had hit home.

"Bastard……burn in hell !" Alasdair rasped. Pain, though dulled by the herbs, still throbbed in his thigh, and he was weak. "If you're here to kill me, damn well hurry up !"

"No; I think I will make you suffer," said Casey, enjoying himself. He settled on the side of the bed, and pulled the sheets down. He whistled appreciatively at the sight of the wound. A barely adequate bandage bound it, but it was soaked in blood and yellow fluid, and the blackened edges had spread much farther than the original wound. He reached out and pressed a finger against the bandage. Alasdair screamed.

"I like listening to you scream," Casey said conversationally as Alasdair flung himself back on his pillows, panting, "I'm sure you've enjoyed a fair few screams in your time too – your victims, no ? Oh, by the way, this was your mother's, bitch that she was. I found it in her cottage." He pulled a silver crucifix from his pocket and placed it against Alasdair's throat. It sizzled, but this time Alasdair did not scream. He could find no strength, no voice. Tears of fear and pain streaked his face, and he tried to brush the silver away from him but Casey held his wrists down.

"No," he growled, "you deserve this, you……"

"That's _enough_ – unhand my son !" a quiet voice spoke from the doorway and Casey spun round. He recognised well one of the men who stood there, and the other; well it would have been impossible to mistake him for any other than Thomas Delacroix. He stepped away from the wounded man on the bed. Thomas strode over and snatched the silver from his son's chest, and flung it to the floor with an oath. He sucked his fingers, hissing in pain, but Alasdair sighed in relief, squeezing his eyes tight shut against the pain that still coursed through his body.

Thomas knocked Gunn to the ground with a powerful blow that would have felled a much bigger man.

"Who the hell are _you_ ?" he growled. He glanced at his youngest son; Edward had a rifle loaded and aimed at Casey, but he looked frightened, as if he did not have the stomach for violence and dreaded to use the thing. Casey looked up at Thomas with a sneer.

"My name is Casey Gunn - I'm the son of the man you killed thirty years ago," he said bitterly. The old grudge rekindled anger in him, and he tried to rise, knife in hand, to make an end of the man who had brought his downfall. Thomas placed the tip of his boot against Casey's chest and forced him down again.

"I wasn't aware that Michael had a son," he said, "and are you Janey's son too ?"

"No."

"_He_ is." Thomas jerked a finger at Alasdair, who was watching the proceedings with some interest. Edward too was wide eyed, unsure now of which side was which, or where he stood.

"Would you murder the son of the woman your father loved ?" Thomas asked Casey, "even though I would be the first to admit she was a faithless whore, I loved her, and I love her son – _my_ son. Whatever you think your grievance to be, it is me you should take issue with."

"I take issue with you both !" spat Casey, "I have lost everything because of you and your accursed family ! Don't you get it ? I intend to destroy you all !"

"On your feet !" thundered Thomas. He didn't wait for Casey to comply, but dragged him to his feet. Edward came closer with the gun. Casey stared at him.

"You intended to betray me the whole time ?" he asked, his face showing incredulity and hatred. It made no matter that he had planned the same betrayal for Edward; this was _his_ game, _his_ revenge. Edward had the good grace to look ashamed of himself, but one glance from Thomas made him steady his aim.

"I am sorry, Casey," said Edward, and tightened his finger on the trigger. Casey faced him defiantly, his chin up, his eyes full of defeat and despair. Thomas took a hold of the gun barrel and lowered it gently.

"Stand down," he said to Edward. He turned back to Casey.

"Am I to understand," he said, "that you intend to exact revenge on me for my part in a deceit that did not, as it happens, involve you ?" His voice was quiet; Thomas was the kind the kind of man who rarely had to raise his voice. His fair features and gentle voice were at odds with his expression, which was downright murderous. He turned to Edward. "And you; what is your game here ?"

"Father, I…." Alasdair struggled to sit, wincing in pain. Thomas lifted him, and poured brandy for him.

"I think I have an idea what's going on," said Alasdair, "but I will die soon; the silver's in my blood. I've sent a girl into the forest to the spring outside Janey's cottage; Gunn says he's captured her. If I don't get that water…."

"I know," said Thomas. He turned to Edward. "You know the way; make haste !"

"Father, I do not know the way !" protested Edward. He flinched as his father took a step towards him, his hand raised.

"I can ruin you, boy, with a word !" he snarled, his eyes a pale gold as his wolf rose in him, "you _do_ know the way ! Now, _make haste_ !"


	9. Chapter 9

Scarlett struggled in her bonds, desperately trying to get free, knowing that Alasdair would die if she didn't. She could see the jars of herbs on the shelf where Janey'd put them, all those years ago. She wondered if there was any point trying, if Alasdair had already gone, and when Gunn would return for her.

She looked up as the door opened cautiously, and a man entered, handsome and well dressed. She didn't recognise him, and stared. He looked about him in distaste, his nose wrinkling at the musty odour of the cottage interior. He looked down his nose at her, his expression blank.

"Well, you're not his usual sort," he said eventually, having looked her over. He unfastened the belt that held her and helped her to her feet. She rubbed her sore wrists and looked up at him. He folded his arms.

"I'm Edward Delacroix," he said brusquely, "get what you need together – seems my father wants my bastard half brother to live."

"Alasdair ?"

"Yes, Alasdair !" he exclaimed, "don't tell me he didn't tell you ?"

"No, sir."

"How remiss of him. Well, hurry up ! We don't want him to die, now do we ?" The last was said through his teeth, as if Alasdair dying was exactly what he wanted.

She hurried to gather up the herbs she'd need for the water, her hands shaking. She fumbled with the jars in her haste and anxiety, and Edward snatched them from her with an impatient sigh and shoved them in his pockets.

"Come on," he said. He held out his hand, and she found herself putting hers in it. His fingers closed round hers, firm and safe, and he pulled her behind him from the cottage.

"Is Alasdair….?" she began, unsure if she wanted the answer. He shook his head.

"Hurry _up_," he snapped, and pulled her roughly after him. She decided his manners needed work, but followed him as fast as she was able, her fear that Alasdair might be dead already burning a hole in her chest. She was panting and gasping and almost in tears by the time they reached the hall. Edward dropped her hand and ran up the stairs, leaving her to follow after him.

Thomas came forward to greet her, his manners rather better than his son's, and she felt relief. He gave her a glass of brandy and made her sit, while Edward bathed Alasdair's wound with the herbed water. Gunn had been knocked out cold and lay crumpled on the floor where he'd fallen. She shuddered at the sight of him. Thomas watched his sons thoughtfully.

"I never thought I'd see the day," he murmured. Scarlett's head snapped round to stare at him. He gave her a rueful smile.

"It wasn't long ago that Edward would have given anything to see Alasdair dead," he explained, "but since coming into his…ah…_inheritance_……legacy…." he paused, and coughed. "It doesn't sit well with him. He needs Alasdair's help. Mine, of course, isn't good enough. I learned to control my wolf years ago – to a degree, that is. I am far from the day when I master it completely. I fail to see how _you_ have come into this."

"I….that is, we….have…."

One look at her face told Thomas all he needed to know. "Ah," he said. "You know, of course, about his wife ?"

"His wife ?" her voice rose in panic.

"He didn't tell you ? No, why should he ? The wolf can have it all."

Scarlett made a concerted effort to gather her wits, which were in danger of being scattered to the four winds again. She thought, with panic rising again, of Bedlam, and prayed that her nerves wouldn't snap, frayed as they were, and land her in the dreaded hospital.

"Lord Delacroix," she began, "Alasdair has told me nothing of his past, nor did I pry. And if he is indeed married, where is his wife ?"

"No idea," he said cheerfully, "she left him several years ago. But that doesn't change the fact that he is married, child. He should have told you."

"I get the feeling he should have told me a lot of things, and didn't," she said, her tone grown suddenly sharp. She rubbed her forehead, and sighed. Thomas rang the bell for tea, and rose to look at his son. Edward had finished with the water and was sitting staring pensively out of the window.

"This should still be mine," he said.

"Maybe," said Thomas, joining him, "but neither of you know why I left, why we should not be in this place, although I would imagine that thirty years is a long time for people to remember, so there is the possibility of reclaiming it. As to what you should and shouldn't have, Edward, that is for me to say until my death, which is a long time in the future !"

Edward's lips thinned; he glowered at Alasdair. "Are you going to tell _him_ to leave ?"

"No; why should I ?"

"Because he is bastard born !"

"That matters not. He is one of us, as well you know. You have just spent the last several minutes tending him. He is my son, and your brother. Have you more to say ?"

"No, sir."

"I am pleased to hear it." Thomas turned back to the bed and placed a cool hand on Alasdair's forehead.

"How do you fare ?" he asked. Alasdair looked up at him through heavy lids, his eyes a little unfocussed but his breath was even and a little of the deathly grey pallor had left him, though he was still ashen.

"I have seen better moments," he said ruefully, attempting a smile. He jerked his head at Edward. "He is still bitter," he said.

"Yes. When you are well, I had better talk to you both, I think, and to your young lady as well. It seems she's a little in the dark concerning you, us, our history……you do her a disservice, sir, not to trust her with your life."

Alasdair sighed and turned his head away. "You know as well as I do that it is not just _my_ life I have to trust her with. And if she should somehow reveal what she knows to one of those ignorant villagers….? She already has enough to hide; I couldn't burden her with more."

"Such as the revelation that you're married ?"

"Uh…."

"I think you do her a _great_ disservice."

"You did _me_ one, to make me marry that witch in the first place !" Alasdair barked, then succumbed to a fit of coughing, weakened by his outburst. "I will never forgive you for that," he wheezed, "my marriage to Juliane ruined my life !"

Scarlett had crept closer to listen. Thomas beckoned her forward, and placed her firmly next to the bed, his hands on her shoulders. "Tell her," he said. "_All_ of it. Edward, come ! Let us inspect the pantries; that old crone of a housekeeper can't have very good supplies in, especially if I know Alasdair." He stalked out, followed by a morose Edward, and left Scarlett to deal with Alasdair. She folded her arms and scowled.

"_Married ?"_ she snarled. He struggled to sit up against the bolster.

"I haven't seen her for five years !" he protested, "She eloped with one of my servants, and ran away to America. Like as not she's dead by now, or married to him instead."

"You should have told me !"

"Well, I…."

"You let me believe you loved me !" she wailed, "were there children ? And you're still married, no matter where she is, if she's not dead, which you don't know, and…."

"There was a child," he interrupted, "a son. He died, three years ago, of cholera in India. As far as I am concerned, I am a free man. And I do love you."

She sniffed, and he held out an arm for her. She let him pull her down next to him, and he buried his nose in her hair.

"I would never deceive you, knowingly," he said softly, "but I didn't think…I thought it was all in the past. I will never see her again, alive or dead, and I thank God for that every day. She nearly ruined me."

"Did you love her ?" Her voice was plaintive; he knew that tone.

"Stop it," he warned, a hint of amusement in his tone taking the sting from his words. "Yes, I loved her, or I thought I did. It was an arranged marriage, she being one of the few women of means who would take a man born on the wrong side of the sheets like myself, but we were compatible, for a while. But she ran up crippling debts on my accounts, cuckolded me constantly, and finally ran away with a servant. By then I was glad to see her go. It took me several years to regain my fortune, and not all my gains were honest ones."

Scarlett sighed. She was resigned by now, having spent long enough in his, and his family's, company to have formed a fairly accurate opinion of them. "Piracy ?"

"In a way. You must know that the Company turns a blind eye to some activities." He reached for the decanter of brandy and shook it meaningfully. She gave him her best look of disapproval but then giggled at his raised eyebrow.

"I hope you're not going to continue with it though," she said. He shrugged.

"My involvement with the Company is permanent," he said, "though I shall certainly be more circumspect about my activities within it. Will that suffice ?"

"It will have to," she said. She nestled against him, making him slosh brandy on his sleeve, and sighed again.

"What is it now ?"

"Well, if you're still married by law…" she began, hesitantly.

"Yes ?"

"Well, you can only have one wife at a time….."

"Ah. I see where this is going. Scarlett, look at me."

She obeyed, fearful of what she'd see in his eyes. He had a hard look to him, and she half-turned before he took her face in his hands and made her face him.

"I have no intention of tying you to me in such a binding manner," he said, "I am too dangerous, and I have no wish to sire sons on you who would share my affliction, and they would. So no, Scarlett. I will not ask you to marry me."

She looked as if he had punched her, and he knew he might as well have done just that. He cursed himself for a fool; he had not counted on it ever coming this far. Certainly not for himself, though he allowed himself a brief moment's fantasy, picturing her as mistress of the Hall. But like Edward, he couldn't marry and father more cursed children.

"It's too late for that," she whispered, breaking his bittersweet reverie. His eyes sharpened.

"Too late for what ?"

"For you to not want children !" she shouted. Tears sprang to her eyes and she leapt from the bed, furious and red-faced. "Your mother can't have been very good at her trade," she continued, "the herbs my mother used have not worked very well for me !"

He groaned as understanding dawned, and pulled a pillow over his face, then flung it from him, swearing profusely. He stopped when he caught sight of her face.

"Oh, don't look like that !" he growled, "I'm not blaming you ! I should have known better. I suppose, then, that I'd better make a decent woman of you – the locals will not tolerate you once you grow a belly with no ring on your finger, that's for sure. I have no idea what todo about Juliane. Proclaim her as dead ?"

She wept. "What will your father say ?"

"Probably similar things as I," he sighed, "and a few more things besides, and I am fairly sure he will have some very unflattering names for the both of us, which we will deserve. Oh, come here !"

She flew into his arms and he held her, finding his initial dismay rapidly replaced with a deep pride that grew in the pit of his belly and spread, somehow involving his loins and his heart and a great deal of heat, and he found himself grinning.

"Well we had better tell them," he said, "better get it over with. I am still certain I've escaped the frying pan only to leap into the fire, but there's nothing for it – go on, call them in !"


	10. Chapter 10

Thomas received the revelation with a blank expression and ice in his pale blue eyes.

"I can't say I'm surprised," he said. He glowered at Edward.

"You don't approve of me," Scarlett stammered, Thomas frightened her, a little. She saw past his genteel manners and quiet demeanour to the violence inside him, and recoiled. He was colder than Alasdair, harder.

"I have a slightly higher opinion of you than I do my son at this moment; however, the pair of you are a disgrace to me ! What were you _thinking_ ?"

"Not a great deal, at the time," quipped Alasdair. Edward sniggered.

"I tried, I really tried," sniffed Scarlett. "My mother used to visit Janey Treweke for certain herbs and she swore by them…."

"Did she now ?" interrupted Thomas. He sat down heavily in a chair and crossed his ankles. "I seem to remember those very same herbs didn't work very well for her either. Not that I regret that," he added, with a glance at Alastair. "I would have, had it been the other man's child and not mine." He motioned to Edward, who started, then realised that Casey was stirring. He slammed his boot into the back of Gunn's head, and Gunn crumpled with a soft sigh into unconsciousness again. "You mean him ?"

"Yes."

"She was sleeping with his father," said Alasdair, realisation dawning. _So that's why he killed her ! I should have known. No wonder Gunn wants us dead – Thomas killed the man too._

He looked suddenly, wickedly, at Scarlett. "Never doubt I would do the same to you, if you betrayed me," he warned, a hint of his old harshness showing through. She rolled her eyes heavenward, as if she thought his threat ridiculous.

"Who am I going to betray you _with _?" she snorted, and noted with pride the look of approval Thomas gave her. She rose, and smoothed her apron, and curtseyed to the men, taking her leave. Thomas escorted her to the door.

"You know what you are dealing with ?" he asked her. She nodded.

"I know _him_."

"I hope you do. Sometimes, it is hard to control. Edward refuses to take a woman for fear his wolf will win through and cause him to do violence. Alasdair seems to have managed perfectly well with you so far, but don't get complacent."

"No, sir. I have never been complacent."

"Good. But should you, or my grand-child, should ever need me, you have only to send word."

"Thank you, sir." She curtseyed again, still a little nervous of him but rather more at ease than she had been.

_Am I to be a part of this family_, she wondered, _with their strange condition and barely controlled violence ? What of my child ? If I bear a son will he be like them ? Edward must have a mother_……she resolved to ask Alasdair about that as soon as she was able.

Alasdair watched as Edward sloshed cold water in Gunn's face. Casey groaned as he came round, his hand going straight to his head. He winced at the bright evening sun in his eyes.

"Rise and shine," grinned Edward, hauling Gunn to his feet none too gently. "Time to go stand before the judge."

"Judge ?"

"Yes – or did you think you were going to get away with this ? We have enough evidence to hang you – and hang you we will !"

"Go to hell," spat Casey, his voice hoarse. His throat was dry and raw, and his heart beat too fast; he needed to calm down but he couldn't. The injustice of it all made him want to weep.

"No, that's where you're going," grinned Edward. He looked out of the window as the sound of hoofbeats floated up to them. "Here they are," he said cheerfully, "the King's men." He took Casey by his elbow and dragged him out of the room and down the stairs to where the captain who had arrested Powell was waiting for him.

Casey stood with Powell in the dock, the iron cuffs biting into his wrists and chafing the skin raw. He was filthy, having spent three weeks in a filthy cell in Highgate. He had spoken to no-one in that time, and his lips would hardly move, cracked and riddled with sores as they were. He stared dully ahead of him, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He felt numb, dead to the world. The verdict echoed round the hollow of his mind like a testament of doom, and he knew his life was over.

Scarlett stood with Edward and watched as the trial proceeded. It had been a shock when she'd discovered who was standing alongside Gunn. As soon as she saw him, she began to shake, her face white as a ghost.

"What's the matter ?" asked Edward. He'd brought Scarlett at his brother's request, Alasdair being too weak to travel. He handed her his handkerchief as tears filled her eyes.

"That man," she whispered shakily, "what is he doing here with Gunn ?"

"Daniel Powell ? He is to be tried alongside Gunn for his involvement in the crime," answered Edward, "he's a notorious highwayman, and," here he lowered his voice, "I think Alasdair was paying him for some job or other – contraband – but you did not hear me say that."

"A-alasdair…? He was working for Alasdair ?" her voice rose in pitch. He frowned at her.

"Yes; why, what's wrong ?"

"He is the man who…who….he forced me….."

"Oh bloody hell !" swore Edward, "He did that ?"

"Yes," she sniffled, and turned her face from the man in the dock. Edward pulled her close with a sigh of exasperation and she hid her face in his waistcoat.

"Watch him hang," he said fiercely. Inside him, the wolf snarled to make the kill itself.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N:

This has, in my original document, turned into a much larger story than I've posted here. But for the sake of completing it here, so you can read the end, I'm still posting the "condensed" version. We're nearly finished though, one or two more chapters should do it !

******************************************************************************************************************

Alasdair frowned in puzzlement at Scarlett as she silently served him coffee. Edward had warned him what had happened, and though Powell had gone to Tyburn, that hadn't seemed to lift her mood. Casey had been transported to Australia, and he'd gone willingly, shouting that he'd be well shot of them and would make his fortune there. Edward didn't care what Gunn did, as long as he was well away from any Delacroix – or Treweke, for that matter.

Alasdair took his cup from Scarlett and put it to one side, then grabbed her hand.

"If I had known what he had done, I would never have allied myself with him," he said, although it was a lie. He had known Powell to deflower several young women; he just hadn't known any of them, and had not known that Scarlett had been one of them. Not knowing them made the difference. Not knowing them made him indifferent. She pulled her hand away.

"And why didn't you tell me ?" he demanded.

"I didn't know his name," she said.

"I have said I am sorry."

"You're a smuggler, and a thief, and a traitor !" she shot back, unwilling to let it lie. He rolled his eyes.

"And you lay these charges at my door now, when there is much worse about me ? You've known for a time what I am, what I do," he said, "yet you've said nothing until now. What do you want me to say to you ?"

"I don't know !" she shouted, "I just need time, Alasdair, to think. It is hard for me to love a man who counted among his friends the man who raped me, can't you see that ?"

"Yes, I can, I just can't see what you want me to do about it."

"Nothing, just let me be."

"No."

He growled in hurt and frustration as she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her as she went.

_And there is yet another reason to have avoided women ! For the love of God….! How the hell do I make this right again ?_

He silently hoped that Powell had had a hard death, choking in his noose, rather than the more merciful quick snapping of the neck as he dropped.

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Scarlett pulled on her crimson cloak and pulled the hood up. She had been in the village, airing out the cottage she spent little time in these days and fetching a few things she wanted. It would be a full moon that night, and she had a ritual to complete in the woods. She filled her basket with roses from her garden, and a stub of candle, and two gingerbread men that she had baked fresh in her own oven. She stepped out of her door and hooked the latch after her, and then made her way up the street towards the Carn and the woods. There was a small knot of women congregating outside the baker's; they fell silent as she passed but then started up their gossiping in hushed, conspiratorial tones once they thought her out of earshot.

_"Whore's colours, those……..well we all know where the term scarlet woman comes from don't we…..scarlett by name, scarlet by nature………no wonder she keeps going to "visit granny"……..didn't think she had it in her……I'll wager she's had both men – and their father too……who would have thought the Delacroix's would come back ? And lie with her ?.....hussy….slut….whore….."_

Tears of shame and hate prickling behind her eyes, she hurried on out of the village with its hateful women, and breathed a sigh of relief once she reached the woods. The scent of late autumn filled her senses, and her breath froze on the evening air. It wasn't quite sundown, and the late evening sun shone honey-gold on the dying wood – leaves of russet, gold, caramel and chocolate. The night would be clear, and the moon was already rising, though still low in the sky. She looked over to the Hall, bathed in shadows and patches of late sun, and thought sadly of the man behind its walls, confined to his bed for much of the time. A wet nose was suddenly shoved into her hand and she yelped, then laughed when she saw the brindled brown-and-honey wolf.

"Edward," she giggled, as he licked her hand and then set off at a lope through the trees. She followed, thankful for his watchful presence. Though Gunn had gone, she would never be easy in the woods alone again. Edward met her at Janey's cottage, having left her to do what she wanted alone, content to watch her from a distance. She was out of breath by the time she got there, being a fair way along with her pregnancy. She took the earthenware jar from his hands and tucked it under her cloak.

"Will that be enough ?" he asked. She nodded.

"It will be all he needs," she said, and sat for a moment in one of the rickety old wooden chairs. She rested her chin in her hands, her elbows on the table.

"It shouldn't end like this," she said sadly, after a moment. He sat opposite her, his expression concerned, his eyes haunted.

"We know better than anyone that fairytale endings are not always possible," he said, "but you won't be alone. You know that. I can promise you that." He reached out and took one her hands in his, covering her fingers with his own. She let him, liking the warmth. Alasdair had not been warm for weeks.

"Well," she said, pulling her hand from his and rising, "we had better return, then."

He followed her, but turned in the doorway and looked around the hovel.

"One day, I will fire this place," he said to himself, then walked with Scarlett back to the Hall.


	12. Chapter 12

In time, the weeds would come and claim the old grey walls.

In time, the wind that howled, like a dying man's soul escaping his body, over the moors from the sea, would scrape bare the gravestones of name and remembrance, and leave nothing but a weathered lump where once had been loving words and those left behind had kneeled to pray.

If only time could always be so certain as that. Scarlett knew it, and she knew that time was the only thing she did not have.

Alastair's face was drawn and grey, thin bones almost transparent under the fine skin. She fancied she could see into his skull, feel the protrusion of vertebrae where his head lolled on his neck. How much longer? How much more?

She took his hand.

'We've come back,' she said, and her voice sounded thick and harsh in her ears, like the _crawk! crawk!_ of crows above a battlefield. Was that what she was? A bringer of death? The herbs Edward held in his cup smelled pungent and vile, yet they were the means by which she must bring mercy to her dying lover. Thomas had assured her it was not death. Alastair would not be gone, not from the world.

_But from my life._

'Scarlett, we can wait no longer,' Edward said. He came to stand by his brother's side, his brow pale and furrowed. He did not love the wolf, but he understood him. He would have to give her the strength to do this.

She creaked to her knees feeling a hundred years old, her eyes forever on Alastair's face.

'I am ready,' she said. 'And so, I think, is he.'

* * *

On the moor, the wind sounded harsh, like the howl of a wolf in the throes of triumph. The still, grey form of the man on the ground lay unresponsive, perhaps asleep, perhaps awake with no need to move. Three figures waited beside him, two pale-haired and silent, the other weeping, her dark hair whipping about her face in the gale, and in her hand was an empty cup.

Thomas Delacroix laid a hand on her shoulder. 'It will take a while,' he said. 'Will you wait? It will be hard for you, to see this.'

'I will wait,' she whispered. 'I love him.'

He nodded, and offered nothing more but his hand, to which she clung with a desperation she couldn't quite conceal. He bore the grip patiently.

'Will he...will he be able to see me? To hear me, if I speak?'

Thomas forced himself to look at the girl. She'd wept overmuch, thinking she understood the pain of silver and what it did to a wolf's blood, but he slammed the contempt from himself knowing she did not deserve it. But still, how could she know?

'He is my son,' he found himself saying. His teeth ground viciously against each other. 'My son, and the son of a witch! _You_ know about witches! For love of you, my son is dead!'

The cup flew from her fingers and caught him on the jaw, a sharp crack that made his head ring. 'For love of a witch, he was born!' she yelled. 'For love of a witch, you did so much wrong! How can you not be ashamed of yourself, Thomas Delacroix?'

'So. You show your true blood.' He grinned suddenly, and looked at his son's body. 'Stay, now, Scarlett. You'll see what silver does to a wolf.'


End file.
